


All is Calm

by Captain America (HisMightyShield)



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Family Drama, Gen, Sushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:45:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/pseuds/Captain%20America
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan and Sherlock have reasons for feeling less-than-cheery. After both trying to improve their moods on their own, they realise that what they really needed was each other’s help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All is Calm

Whenever a few days passed in the brownstone without a solid case for Sherlock, the entire atmosphere of the home that he and Joan shared seemed to thicken. It was like his attitude somehow affected the barometric pressure. The less Holmes had to do, the more agitated he became. There were no tantrums or mood swings; the foulness of boredom just seemed to depress and flatten him. But with each passing day, Joan felt he was becoming more and more like a shaken soda can or a tightly stretched elastic. It was only a matter of time before he erupted or snapped. She could feel the stress hanging in the air all around him and she knew that it was during these times, this down time, that he ran the risk of using again. She’d learned as much from Alistair. The bookstore employee had explained that before Holmes had gotten extremely involved in drug use, he’d dabbled when he was otherwise unoccupied. This meant, to Watson, that Sherlock’s boredom might function as a doorway to more dangerous things and he needed to be _watched_. Something that, unfortunately, his habits made increasingly difficult.

Joan believed that communication was important between the two of them and it frustrated her when he became emotionally bogged down like this because he had nothing to spend his brain on. It bothered her not only because he seemed to shut himself down but also because, in turn, it made him difficult to talk to. While she didn’t want to burden him with anything over-complicated (that certainly wasn’t what she was being paid for) it was nice to have the chance to talk to someone about the little annoyances in her life. It was healthy to vent but when she was employed to always be in such close quarters with someone, her options were limited.

Three days ago, Joan received a phone call that she wished she could complain about. The subject matter of the call just left her feeling less-than-cheery, a mood that was only perpetuated by Sherlock’s general mopiness.

As it turned out that her parents would not be spending Christmas in New York after all. Initially, because of Joan’s commitment to Sherlock, they’d made the plan so they could at least have a nice dinner as a family for the few hours she could leave him alone. Instead, though, her mother had booked discounted, last minute tickets to Vegas -- leaving Watson to feel both disappointed that she wouldn’t get her usual family Christmas, and a little jealous that she couldn’t just pick up and leave on a whim. Joan did like her work with Sherlock -- it wasn’t that she didn’t -- but she also didn’t think there was anything wrong with occasionally wanting to rebel against the burden of responsibility and at least wish that she had the freedom to vacation when she wanted to. 

They’d reached day four without a call from the NYPD, a buzz on the police radios or an interesting scrap in the newspapers. Joan suggested that the slowed-down crime rate might have had something to do with New York getting into the ‘Christmas Spirit’ which had thrown Sherlock into a mood caused by, as he explained it: ‘the season of suicidal false-alarms.’ Joan didn’t quite know what that meant, and wasn’t sure she wanted to. Never had the phrase ‘best left to the imagination’ meant more to her than it had after meeting Sherlock Holmes.

So Joan did her best to stay attentive and stave off her own rising levels of annoyance. This time, though, she couldn’t blame Sherlock’s immature moping or inconsiderate noise-making for why she was feeling a bit sour (or at least, she couldn’t blame it completely). Which was why, when an old friend got back in touch with an offer of lunch, she’d had a hard time turning her down. It would be nice to get out for an hour or two to get away from Holmes and talk to someone about the things that were happening in her life that didn’t have to do with being a consultant to a consulting detective.

She had tried, and was continuing to try, to get Sherlock to open up to her in the weeks they’d already spent together. She’d had some moderate success, but she was also beginning to understand that Holmes wasn’t like most people. That the ways that he showed her he trusted her and the ways that he revealed things might not be what she’d expected, but they were his ways and she had to adjust to him just as much as he did to her. They were both trying and that certainly meant progress for Sherlock and... _something_ for Watson as well, though she still couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was just yet.

As her lunch-date approached with still no crime on the radar and no news from Tobias, Joan had started to feel like she might have to cancel her plans to meet her old friend just because she didn’t want to leave Holmes alone. Although she was worried about his drug use, she did want to believe him when he said he was finished with them. After all, trust was important and thus far he had proven that it might be true, but she was not entirely convinced that he would stay out of trouble. To Joan, drug-use or not, he did seem like he was prone to destructive behaviour and that was reason enough to stay with him even though his boredom was grating on her nerves. She hoped he found something to occupy his time with soon, even if wishing for a violent crime wasn’t quite something she was comfortable admitting to herself. 

“Gregson emailed me a collection of cold case files,” he said mournfully to Joan as she poured fresh fruit into the blender to make herself her morning smoothie. He stole a strawberry from her bowl before he continued. “PDFs, mm. He sent me scans.”

“That’s good!” She tried to ignore his tone as she surrendered the rest of her fruit for him to pick through. She watched as he grimaced and rolled his eyes and tried not to smile at his theatrically dramatic reaction. “Okay, that isn’t good -- why isn’t that good? Isn’t it something?”

Sherlock’s face always said far more than his words. He was always expressive, and Joan was beginning to pride herself in her ability to read what his lips meant when they twisted a certain way or when his eyebrows quirked. She was almost as apt at sorting out his faces as she was at his ridiculous text message acronyms.Watson realised she’d cracked that code the second she knew that “IUIACALIIYROT” was _’I urinated in a cup and left it in your room on time’_ without even having to think about it.

“I don’t know what he expects me to do with them,” Sherlock replied, his voice laced with indignation. “As I’ve said, Watson, they’re scans. I can’t feel those, I can’t smell the boxes they came in or spread them out and--”

“Build forts from the boxes?” Joan interjected, shaking her head. “The information is the same Sherlock. Give it a try, you have to admit that it’s better than not doing anything.”

“Yes,” he admitted, even if it was still quite clear that he loathed the idea of having to read off a computer screen. He turned towards the set up in the living room for a moment and rolled his shoulders before turning back to look at his sober companion. “And you can go, if you want. I’ll be alright on my own.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You were going to ask me if you could meet a friend, if you could leave me alone for a few hours.”

“Sherlock, I thought we discussed that I didn’t want you going through my emails,” Watson said flatly. Even though he said he wouldn’t try to break into her computer or private messages any more, Joan had gotten into the habit of changing her passwords almost every other day. She was getting frustrated trying to remember which password was for what so she had really been hoping that snooping into her affairs would be a habit he’d stop. She didn’t really want to keep anything from him, that wasn’t the point, it was just that there was a big difference between asking questions and making inquiries and taking the information without asking. Joan knew very well that Sherlock seemed to misunderstand boundaries and given what he was able to sort out about people from a glance, Watson understood why that must be, but as much as she could sympathise with his reasons she wasn’t going to condone bad behaviour.

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Sherlock said, turning towards her and leaning against the doorframe. “I haven’t. It’s just that it’s clear you wanted to ask me something, and considering your inquiries about whether or not I had something to occupy myself with it’s easy to conclude that you wanted to make sure I was busy before leaving me to my own devices and I want you to know that it’s fine. If Gregson’s cases turn out to be useless, I’ll mingle with my queen.” He raised a finger to tap his temple. “I need to revise chapter eight, as it were.”

“Alright.” Joan liked the idea of a couple hours of freedom, she wouldn’t deny it, and she did believe him when he told her that he would be fine on his own. She watched as Sherlock dragged himself up from the table and headed over to his command centre of various police radios and his computer. She looked at the breakfast mess he’d left behind, fully aware that if she was going out it would still be there when she got back -- but that it would be a better idea to pressure him into tidying up after he’d had his fill of police business. “I’ll be at the Bronx zoo if you need me. My friend’s a veterinarian, she works in the reptile house..”

Even as she spoke she knew Sherlock wasn’t listening, already downloading email attachments and going through what Gregson sent over for him to assess. She smiled to herself, and just left it at that to go up to her room to get ready to leave.

***

Sherlock Holmes prided himself in being observant. It was his greatest skill; no matter the circumstances he could see just about everything and from it piece together the answer to any question or solve any equation. He could tell from the state of a man’s hands the manner of his profession. He could track a perpetrator based on a single speck of dirt left behind at a crime scene. He was useful because of this skill and that was why he was now staring, tight-lipped at the scanned files that Tobias Gregson had sent to his computer screen wishing that he could be more interested but finding it impossible.

When he _didn’t_ have a nice murder to wear down in his brain like a piece of glass in the ocean, Holmes found that he turned his mind to the more mundane. It wasn’t even that he meant to pry into the lives of others sometimes, it was just that he couldn’t help what he saw any more than a doctor could change what he diagnosed. He just needed a problem, really, and any would do. It was just unfortunate that Joan was so close at hand and so obviously gloomy about something.

Well, if he was being honest with himself, she wasn’t actually being obvious about anything at all. She was behaving much as she usually did, which was what piqued his interest in the first place. He knew that if she was just being put off because of him (he wasn’t entirely unaware that he became irritable when he didn’t have a proper mystery) she would let him know. This was something else -- something personal enough that he probably shouldn’t ask too much after it, which only increased his desire to know.

He started to think back to when he first noticed the shift in her personality and could trace it, he decided, to the conversation he’d caught parts of a few days ago. Holmes had only picked up a few words here and there, nothing conclusive, but he _could_ tell by Joan’s few attempts as Mandarin that she was speaking to her mother which at least gave him a direction: Watson was upset and it had something to do with her parents.

Immediately, which probably did not say much as far as what Holmes thought of Joan’s father was concerned, he thought perhaps the man had been caught in another affair. It was almost always his gut reaction on these matters and Sherlock knew he was probably being influenced by his own disappointing father. He just didn’t have much faith in parental figures not to let their children down or to otherwise be entirely more self-serving than they were supportive. Sherlock would admit that he wasn’t always the most objective when it came to deductions. He based a lot of his theories on statistics and generalisations, at least when they were first being formed, but tried whenever he could to keep his own personal experiences out of it. He knew that his own life was not _normal_. That wasn’t to say whether it was good or bad, but that how he was raised was not exactly the sort of upbringing he might use as the control in an experiment. It was unfair to assume the worse of Joan’s father just because he might think the worst of his own.

Since they met in September, their relationship had certainly had it’s metaphoric “ups” and “downs”. He had no frame of reference as to what a sober companionship ought to be and so the best he could do was compare it to limited experiences with others that he did have: his friendship with Allistair, his “work” with Gregson, his agreement with his family and whatever it was between himself and Irene. Of course, when it came to Irene Adler he didn’t like to draw up any similarities or differences because she was a subject on which he chose not to dwell. He felt he could dismiss a comparison with Gregson because his consulting business was something he needed as much as it was something he wanted, and he did not feel as though “need” was a word he would use to describe what he had with Joan. It made him uncomfortable because the idea of being in such close quarters with someone he felt he _needed_ pushed him towards a thought of dependency, which he did not care for. Besides which, the idea that Joan Watson was only important because he needed to engage with her to break his addiction was untrue. He _was_ finished with drugs. He also felt as though the thought that she was merely his companion in that regard sold her short, and was not at all reflective of her abilities. When it came to his family, he sincerely believed that he only had dealings with them out of obligation, which left only Allistair, which left only friendship. Could he consider what he and Joan had, at this point, a friendship?

Not quite.

Part of the reason that he had such a difficult time opening up to her was that he sometimes found himself questioning the sincerity of her motives. There was no denying the fact that she was being paid to “be there for him” and, truthfully, he didn’t like that -- but there was also no denying the fact that she wanted to stay with him even after he’d wrecked her car. She’d made the choice, she’d gone above and beyond what he would consider her call of duty, and that meant a lot more to him than he’d ever be able to express. There was also the fact that he had shared with her something which he deemed far more important than his past: _his work_. Unlike any friend he’d had in the past, she played an active role in what he did, and she enjoyed it. She was helpful, incredibly, with her medical background; she’d even managed to draw his attention to details that he would have missed. He would never tell her that she was crucial in the solutions to some of his cases, his pride wouldn’t allow it, but it was something he’d admitted to himself.

Perhaps, _just perhaps_ , the word he was looking for was ‘partnership’. He’d never wanted a partner before; the thought had never occurred to him because he doubted that anyone else would ever prove useful. He did not hold the police force in very high regard when it came to detective work, but Joan had proven herself to be much better at observation than anyone he’d encountered in the past. Being proven wrong always came as a surprise to him, of course, but he wasn’t closed off from the possibility and he was glad, very glad, that he’d been shown the error of his ways by someone like her. He honestly liked the idea of having her around when it came to tossing ideas about -- and even if he didn't quite know what it meant to have a partner, he decided that he could consider her nothing else.

Maybe that was why he had so much respect for her. It might even be the reason that, when she demanded things of him -- be it the right to her own privacy or information about his past -- he'd finally given in. It was something he almost regretted now because he imagined a quick peek into her internet history or email might shed some light on the issue of why she was not currently feeling her best. But he'd never been one to limit himself to only one path to the answers he sought. He simply had to use other means to collect the information he needed to theorise and over the past few days, and unbeknownst to her, he’d done his best to pluck the clues he needed.

He set aside his opinions of her family and started to consider the other avenues of her life, places where he knew she'd had trouble in the past. The most obvious of these was her departure from the world of medicine. He knew that she'd reconnected not long ago with a fellow doctor, a woman whose name escaped him but who had tested her instincts. He wondered if something further had happened between that doctor and Joan, but that didn't quite make sense because there had not been any further mention of that other surgeon and he did believe, considering her willingness to discuss her theories with him the first time, that she would not be cagey about divulging any new problems. Her relationship with past professions was not, he reasoned, personal enough for her to keep secrets about.

Taking the phone call with her mother back into account, because he could not dismiss a fact he already knew and that call seemed to be the beginning of her offness, Holmes thought perhaps some ill-fated romance was the cause. He knew that in the past, an old boyfriend of Joan’s had gotten in touch with her mother so it did stand to reason that something like that might happen again. The only trouble there was that it might prove difficult to prove that Tyler Morstan was at all responsible without checking into Joan’s email accounts or phone history. Thinking a moment longer, Holmes realised that while he did promise Watson to stay out of her things, he never offered to extend that courtesy to everyone that she knew. He told himself, as he brought up another browser window, that he would not read the contents of any emails exchanged between the former lovers, he’d just check to see if any correspondence had taken place. He thought that was a fair compromise, after all, she’d collected his letters from Irene at the rehab facility; this really was no different.

Sherlock was halfway through the process of guessing Morstan’s email password when he realised that in actuality, he didn’t have to. When he realised that Joan had already told him what the problem was, not with what she’d said to him in the past few days, but what she hadn’t. He hadn’t considered it at all at the time, but now that he was playing back their conversations in his mind and looking for something to latch onto to explain her behaviour, it was about as obvious as a house on fire.

During their morning ritual yesterday, Watson had gone through her usual attempts at conversation for a moment or two before asking if his family was making any attempt to come in from London. By family he had assumed she meant “brother”, as he was sure that she'd learned what his father's habits were like. When he'd said that no, he had no plans, she'd shrugged, said that that meant they would be spending Christmas together and left the table. He thought nothing of it at the time (mostly because he was trying to work himself out of a zip tie he'd used to bind his wrists with a butter knife) but in retrospect, he was sure on a previous occasion she'd mentioned her parents coming into town for the day. The phone call he'd overheard, then, must have been her mother explaining they had a different idea for the holiday that excluded her. While there were a number of things that he did not understand when it came to relationships, being disappointed by a parent was something he was all too familiar with; something that he could relate to, without a doubt. He also knew that while he had grown a callous over his feelings when it came to broken promises from his father, other people might still be open and susceptible to that kind of wound and he could truly empathise. Sherlock was aware that he could offer no proper substitute for a family Christmas, but he was suddenly struck with an overwhelming urge to -- well, to try.

But what could he do?

***

When Watson had decided to give up her life as a surgeon, she'd also chosen to distance herself from the people who knew her then. Her fellow doctors, the staff at the hospital where she worked and the social circles she'd been a part of had been abandoned alongside the profession she no longer felt a connection with. It wasn't that she was exactly friendless now, but there was something particularly nice about meeting up with someone she'd known from school. Her veterinarian friend who worked at the zoo didn't ask her about why she wasn't a doctor anymore, she didn't ask about why Joan had made the choices she did or give her that astonished, disapproving look that usually coupled with not understanding why anyone would want to stop being what they'd worked so hard to become. Instead, they'd reminisced on old parties, old boyfriends and other times gone by and it was a welcome escape from the detestable interactions she'd grown so accustomed to. She didn't like having to explain herself to anyone, particularly when she didn't feel like it was really their business to have an opinion on what she did with her own life. It was a welcome change of pace as far as conversation was concerned and she was really glad, for the most part, that Sherlock had found enough to do with those case files from Gregson that she didn't have to think about the fact that she'd left him alone. But it was Christmas eve, and it didn't take long for for her friend to talk about the fact that she was not only engaged, but also filled to the brim with plans for the following day. She'd be spending Christmas morning with her wonderful fiancé's parents before the couple would move on to have dinner with her family. Joan wasn't resentful at all, it certainly wasn't her friend's fault for having good news. She wasn't even jealous -- a large, extravagant family gathering wasn't her idea of a good time (not since every relative she had decided she had lost her mind after giving up career, anyway). But it did put her in mind of the rather dismal Christmas she'd be spending in the brownstone with a moping out-of-work consulting detective and a flock -- or hive, or whatever -- of bees for company. Even so, the lunch had gone well enough that she'd lost track of time.

On her walk to the subway, she shot Holmes a text message to let me know that she'd be a bit late. His response was surprisingly immediate, and she couldn't help but roll her eyes.

NHATPSSYT

_Not home, at the police station. See you there._

She truly hoped that he'd just uncovered something in one of the cold cases that needed clarifying. Even if it was a bit selfish, the last thing she wanted to do with her night was deal with something current. The thought of something like a murder on Christmas eve was nothing but depressing. When she'd first decided to become a sober companion, she had expected to see some of the less-glamorous side to New York City. In fact, that had been one of the reasons she'd chosen it. When she'd worked as a surgeon, she'd been paid well for what she did. She could afford a flat that was much too large for just herself, dine out with her co-workers at expensive restaurants and really reap the benefits of the success that she felt that she had worked for, that she'd earned. 

Her last patient, his name was Stephen Alderman, he was divorced, in his forties, without children and had worked as a private electrician for most of his life. She hadn’t known any of that when she’d met him. All she’d known was that he’d had a massive heart attack. He was brought to her for a routine balloon angioplasty for a stent. It was not an incredibly difficult or invasive procedure, and it was one that she’d performed without incident at least a dozen times before. In the rushed, emergency situation, she hadn’t versed herself fully in his medical records and hadn’t realised he was on the blood thinner Coumadin. It was too late for a plasma infusion and she just couldn’t stop the unexpected bleeding. He died on her table in minutes. She’d tried everything she knew to resuscitate him but there was nothing that she could do. She made a mistake that had cost him his life. _Stephen_ , who’d worked every day since he was a teenager, who had no real health coverage and would barely have been able to pay for his surgery even if he had made it. _Stephen_ , who earned his own living and that couldn’t help him when he met her incompetence. Stephen, who had an ill-attended funeral and a state-funded burial because there was no one around who wanted to help. He paid with his life for her mistake, and her only punishment was a slap on the wrist and a temporary suspension. How could she really go back to work after that? How could she pretend that those circumstances were at all fair? How could she even accept sympathy from her co-workers -- as though her pain and mental suffering over what she’d done could in any way measure up to a life cut short?

All she wanted, when she decided to start working with addicts, was an attempt to give people that others had given up on the chance to get their life _back_. It wasn’t penance; Watson wasn’t doing this to make herself feel better as a human being, it was just that she felt it was all that she could do. That, and remember Stephen Alderman because no one else was going to.

When she arrived at the usual precinct, it was almost abandoned. There were still a number of detectives working, of course, but she’d been there enough during high-profile cases to recognise the reduced staff. It was Christmas eve, after all, and she felt that it was almost a given that everyone wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t their job. In fact, by the time she made it to Gregson’s office, he was locking up with his coat slung over his arm, looking like he was ready to pack it in for a day or two himself.

“Sorry.” She said, pulling off her gloves. “The trains are all slower today, it took forever to get here. Just point me in the right direction.”

Gregson looked at her, a bit confused for a moment and then stuffed his keys into his pocket to pull on his coat. “And what direction might that be?”

“Sherlock,” she said. “Where is he?”

“Well not here, for one.”

“Has he left already?” She pulled out her phone, checking it quickly to see if she’d gotten a text since she’d left the underground. There wasn’t anything from him since his announcement that he would be at the station.

“I haven’t seen him at all. Actually, the only thing I heard was a complaint he sent me about the files.” Gregson shrugged. “It’s almost 2013 though, so I think it’s about time he got used to--”

“The PDFs?” She smiled a little, remembering the conversation she’d had with Holmes earlier. “But he hasn’t been in?”

“No,” Gregson said, shaking his head. “And trust me, if he’d been here, I would know. Anyone who sees him, especially when he pops by unannounced, makes sure to announce it to me.”

“But why would he tell me he was here...?” If she hadn’t already known Holmes for a few weeks she might have been worried, but her first thought was that he was probably enjoying his few hours of freedom as much as she had. She was a bit concerned with what he might have gotten up to while she’d been out this long, but she firmly believed that the worst case scenario was probably property damage -- not drugs. “I should get back, sorry about this.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Gregson reassured her. “You think everything is all right?”

“Well, I’m not sure he hasn’t set something on fire, if that’s what you mean,” she said. It really wouldn’t be the first time. “But I’m sure everything is fine. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Joan knew that Gregson was more than just vaguely aware of Sherlock’s history, and she appreciated that, even knowing the problems that Holmes had in the past, Gregson had been willing to give him another chance to put his mind to work and to obsess and fixate over something that made a difference instead of having nothing but his own demons to fill his time. She knew that Holmes was probably not the type of person to ever say it, but she was positive that Sherlock was well aware of just how lucky he was to have someone like Gregson on his side.

“I’m on my way home,” Gregson said, gesturing towards the elevators. “So I can give you a ride back if you want. Traffic probably isn’t too bad by now and it’ll be better than the subway.”

“Oh, thanks. That’s great.” She started to follow him as he walked down the hall and then stopped. He’d actually said something that had given her an idea. Something that might make the undoubtedly slow days ahead just a little bit more bearable for Holmes. “Actually, if you don’t mind Captain, I have a favour to ask.”

****

“Sherlock?” On the drive home the overcast sky had broken into a flurry of snow that, given the date, Joan had a hard time feeling bad about. But it was thick enough that when she first walked into the brownstone carrying a rather heavy cardboard box, she was too preoccupied with trying to get it off her hair to notice the change in their shared home. “Sherlock, where --”

Watson noticed the bannister first, and that it had been fitted with a string of lights woven with fake pine tree garland from the base to the top. She stepped further into the brownstone and set the box she was carrying down, turning to shut the door behind her and taking a moment to stare transfixed as spotted the wreath attached to the back of it. Had she not had to use her key to get in, she might have thought she’d walked into the wrong house.

She was still standing there, admiring the wreath, when she heard the first soft slide of a violin bow over strings. The melody was a simple one, and she recognised it at once as _Silent Night_. Caught somewhere between confusion and enchantment, Watson untangled her scarf from her neck and wandered into their dining room.

Like the bannister, the gate on the wall where Sherlock kept his collection of handcuffs and locks behind was also lit up with dozens of small twinkling white lights and draped with tinsel. The table, which had been littered with their breakfast dishes, was now transformed into a formal setting for two -- complete with folded napkins placed beneath small sprigs of holly. She moved past the table, following the sound of the violin until she spotted Holmes standing in front of his rows of televisions with his back to her like the very first day she’d met him. Though tonight, he was dressed in an untucked white shirt and all the screens had been switched off.

Sherlock turned around and gave her a half smile without interrupting the melody he was playing. He glanced at her quickly, then turned his eyes to the floorboards until he played through to the end of the song. Then he brought the violin away from his neck and held it beside his thigh. 

“Hello, Watson.”

“Sherlock....” She didn’t know quite what to say. Not because she was left completely dumbfounded by the state of the brownstone or the sight of him playing his violin, but because she was still caught between disbelief at what was happening and scepticism as to _why_ it was happening. “What--what’s going on?”

“I realised that you told me originally that you had plans with your family for Christmas, but later alluded to the fact that for whatever reason that had changed and that upset you.” He kept his eyes on the floorboards as he spoke. He was, Joan knew, always a direct person when he was talking about his observations or his findings but when it came to himself or his own feelings everything he said was shrouded in nervous shyness. “I realised that, you see, and I know what it’s like to be -- to be disappointed in that way, I could see that it upset you.”

“You didn’t have--”

“I know, I know I didn’t have to do this. I wanted to. I usually abhor traditions like these. I feel they are false. That people often get together for them out of a sense of obligation and not sentiment which is why, actually, knowing that I didn’t have to is probably the only reason I did and --” he paused, and lifted his gaze look at her for the first time since she’d come home. “And even though I don’t need a reason, now that I have one what better time would it be to show you -- and tell you -- just how much I appreciate you, Watson.”

“Sherlock...” As she searched for the right thing to say, she turned back to glance at the table. “Did you make dinner?”

“I ordered sushi. As I said, I abhor traditions.”

Joan laughed and turned back to him, shaking her head. This had to be, without a doubt, one of the most thoughtful things that anyone had ever done for her. And Holmes was right, the fact that he didn’t have to do any of this made it so much more meaningful than any planned family reunion. Even if she did miss her parents, she couldn’t deny that what he’d put together here was something special. “Hold on, a second. I have something for you.”

She hurried back into the hallway, pausing for only a second when she noticed the pot of poinsettias sitting one of the the tables usually reserved for his case work, and then collected the cardboard box that she’d brought home.

“Since I was at the police station anyway,” she said with a smirk. Now she understood why he’d sent her on a bit of a wild goose chase: he’d needed more time to get everything together and she couldn’t fault him for that at all. “You said this morning that you hated scanned files so I convinced Captain Gregson to check these out for you. The cold cases he sent you this morning, in their entirety, for you.”

“I thought you might,” he declared, setting his violin down in it’s case.

“No you didn’t.”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t,” he admitted, crossing over to claim the files.

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other as he slipped his hands into the holds of the box. Their fingers touched and he smiled, almost bashfully, while glancing down at the lid. “I--”

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes -- Happy Christmas, Watson.”

 

~*~  
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_Author’s note: I really love Lindsey Stirling’s rendition of Silent Night for the violin which you can listen tohere, and I really think it’s worth it. Hope you enjoy! It was something of an inspiration for this story. _


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